


adsum

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [7]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Complicated Relationships, Drunken Shenanigans, Homecoming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: War season is over, and Antony has come home.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 21
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

And Brutus had written, months ago:

_...I trust you will be victorious against our enemies abroad and return safely to my side. In return, you must trust I will protect your name against our enemies at home. If I have given you reason to doubt my commitment, I ask only for you remember: it is my name as well._

_Antonicus  
  
_

* * *

  
They could not know the reason for the transformation that came over their general, but those who had been with Antony for years noticed he was stronger and more sure than any time since Pharsalus.

This was Antonius on his back foot but lit by a fire from within. This was Antonius, who could not lose.


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought you were a grim specter of death,” said Brutus.

He rose from his desk and crossed the room in a daze. He looked like he hadn't slept all summer, but his eyes were bright upon him.

“I've been called worse things in bed,” said Antony, watching him closely.

Such a reply would normally merit Brutus casting him an admonishing look or, at the very least, ignoring him so thoroughly he might question the man's hearing. But instead – Brutus embraced him.

Arms a warm pressure around his shoulders, on his back. Hands meeting along his spine. Antony accepted the embrace, though he did not let his chin so much as skim Brutus's shoulder. He narrowed his eyes on the opposite wall and thought hard.

It was no good trying to read into Brutus when he was like this; too many hours awake stripped something critical from his armor. When Antony was younger, he did not understand that his armor was part of Brutus, that lapses in his composure were not glimpses of some concealed truth.

“I had no idea my disguise was so cunning,” he added lightly, as Brutus stepped back. He twitched the hem of his cloak, allowing the courier tunic he wore beneath to peak through. He arched his eyebrows at Brutus, who must've been in an uncommonly good mood, for all he did was nod and say:

“It has been a long day. One of many.” Brutus skimmed a hand over his hair. He confessed, “I was beginning to think you would wait out the rest of our consular year in Gaul.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” said Antony. “But no, that's not what took so long. Never leave a task half-done, you know what they say.”

“So Quintus is dead?”

He paused. “...No. According to reports, Quintus fled Hispania alone. I imagine he's swimming towards Sicily or some other wretched place. But his army is destroyed,” he added, with emphasis. “That task – that task is all done.”

One man alive out of nine thousand, surely no one could paint that a failure? He frowned and flicked his eyes over Brutus, but the other man looked perfectly indifferent to the fate of the rebel army.

“There was no news of your arrival in Italy,” said Brutus. And then, looking over Antony's clothing again, his mind working ahead, “You rode ahead of your army? You must be exhausted.”

His army was three days behind him. He'd taken Eros and Vorenus and ridden hard, slept little. In the soldiering life, the body grew accustomed to such exertions.

Still.

He affected a yawn. It wasn't his best work, but Brutus was operating at a lower capacity than usual and appeared to swallow the ruse whole. He frowned at him in concern.

“Well,” Antony said: “Best be off to my rooms. Assuming you haven't turned them into a parlor for committee meetings in my absence. I wouldn't put it past you.”

He didn't move, but the the other man's eyes widened anyway.

“No,” said Brutus. “Stay.” And he looked around; for what, Antony did not know. Perhaps he expected another bed to descend from the sky. But Venus did not hate Antony quite that much.

“Go ahead and use my bed,” decided Brutus. “I have more letters yet to write.”

Turning to conceal the roll of his eyes, Antony shrugged out of his cloak and dropped down on the bed to remove his boots. Through the falling fringe of his hair, he monitored Brutus's movements – which were minimal. He was looking at him; watching Antony openly even as Antony returned the looked covertly.

“Tell me how the Senate fares,” he said, not because he wanted to hear it, but because he knew if Brutus actually managed to make it back to his desk, there would be no prying him away from it until morning.

“Well, I think I've made some progress with the Optimates on land reform. Or, at least, they haven't torn me limb from limb in the forum yet.”

“I can't hear you. Speak up.” Antony fell back on the bed, his feet still on the floor. He did not groan at the softness of the mattress, but it was a near thing.

Brutus took a measured breath. “I said, I think the land reform is going well—”

“Still can't hear you.” And when Brutus scowled at him: “What? I've had soldiers bellowing in my ears all summer. Try to be a little understanding if my senses haven't adjusted to your delicate society after ten fucking minutes.”

He folded his arms. “Shall I shout, then? Perhaps wake the whole house, have Eleni or even my mother in here?”

“Or you could simply come closer,” said Antony.

Miraculously, Brutus needed no more encouragement or convincing. The man was practically swaying on his feet, and no sooner had he sat then he fell back on the mattress next to Antony.

Ha, he thought: with problem-solving skills like this, how could anyone doubt the Republic was in good hands?

They both looked at the ceiling.

“How was Spain?” Brutus asked after a moment.

He thought about it. “Hot. Bloody. How was Rome?”

“Hot.” He paused. “Bloody-minded.”

He felt it when Brutus turned his head to look at him. Antony closed his eyes.

Brutus said, “If we're not careful, we'll fall asleep here. You have a terrible track record on this.”

“Once, in Pelusium, I fell asleep in an empty horse trough,” murmured Antony in agreement. “I wasn't even drunk.”

“Do you remember? In Greece?” Brutus's voice was warm in the darkness. He sounded soft and close and perhaps even fond.

Antony blinked his eyes open and looked unwillingly at him. They did not talk about Greece. Once every couple years, it seemed like one of them would bring it up out of ulterior spite – Antony to rattle Brutus; Brutus to call Antony to heel, or so he could only assume.

“Antony, do you remember – someone dared you to scale the Acropolis of Lindos and you did but couldn't figure a way to get down? And I was running around like a mad thing, trying to find a proper ladder. Had to wake the provincial works publicanus. But by the time I came back, you'd fallen asleep. Like a. Cat in a tree.”

His words were blurring, elongating: a fraying tether to the waking world. He was almost completely gone, his hands limp at his sides, his head still turned towards Antony. Brutus didn't wait up for his reply, which was about right. They did not discuss Greece.

With effort, Antony rose up on his elbows and rolled over. He hesitated over Brutus's recumbent body, tracing the square, uncompromising line of his jaw and cheek. The man slept with his body open and unguarded, like one who had never thought twice of a dagger in the night.

After a lengthy pause, Antony left him lying there and crawled up the length of the bed to where the pillows awaited him. He tucked one beneath an ear. He kept himself oriented towards his host, so that he was the last thing he saw before shutting his eyes again.

Brutus's back was going to be murder tomorrow, he thought idly as he fell asleep.  
  


* * *

  
Antony rolled over in bed and blearily opened his eyes to the too-bright room. He was not even hungover and yet he felt like dying. It was always like this, the first night back in a real bed after a campaign.

“What're you doing?” he asked, mouth half-crushed against the arm he had thrown up to block the light. Brutus had changed his tunic, and his fingers bore smudges of ink. He had clearly been up for a couple hours.

He sounded his usual dry self as he replied, “Finishing the correspondence you waylaid me from last night. Late at night or first thing are the only times I can attend to it. And sometimes not even then.”

Antony was sleepily amused by his martyred manner. “War's hard too, you know.”

“Did I say it wasn't?”

“There was a tone.”

“If there was,” he replied tartly, “it was only because I think you enjoy battle far more than I do administration.”

Antony stretched his limbs out, trying to shake off the malaise produced by the soft bed. He said, “You know, while we were stopped over in Cisalpine Gaul, I spoke to several chiefs, and they all sang praises of your brief governorship there. You might not enjoy it, but you can't deny you have a knack.”

When he glanced over, he saw Brutus bore a peculiar expression: his eyes fixed unblinking upon Antony's form even as his mouth ran on undeterred.

“I don't have a _knack_ , I merely didn't rob the locals blind. The provinces have been so mistreated, they are like a slave who lavishes his master with love and flattery if he neglects to beat him black and blue. It's hardly an objective assessment.”

“Take the fucking compliment, Brutus,” he said. He arched his back and groaned a little as his spine finally cracked, the tension that had built up during the night draining away.

When he looked over again, Brutus's pen was in two pieces, and the man was still watching him.  
  


* * *

  
The mood remained strange and tense all through bathing and breakfast, and their respective personalities did little to deescalate the situation. The more fixated and stiff Brutus grew, the more determined Antony was to pretend nothing was happening.

Then Eros brought the dog into the triclinium. He'd forgotten about the dog.

“What,” said Brutus, setting his honeyed bread down, “is that.”

“It's a dog,” said Antony.

Brutus looked at him, expressionless.

“It's your dog,” he clarified and waved a hand. “He was going to be killed for the crime of being useless. But I know how you feel about idiot beasts with no control over themselves – I thought he'd make an excellent gift.”

The black dog was 125-libra of excitable muscle, of which at least a tenth was owed to its sagging jowls. Its tongue was long and exceedingly wet, and the animal couldn't seem to be bothered to keep it in its mouth. When it made a beeline for Brutus and began nosing his legs, it put the tongue to liberal use.

Brutus seemed frozen in horror. It wasn't the best of introductions.

“Baccha,” commanded Antony. He used the same tone that had sent grown men marching eyes-open to their deaths; it didn't seem to make a difference to the dog. The call went unheeded for three repetitions, but when he held aloft an amphora of wine, the dog finally relented and dropped away from Brutus, following his snuffling nose across the room to Antony.

“Baccha?” Brutus tilted his head, eyes sweeping the pertinent area. “But it's a boy.”

“A eunuch, actually, if you insist on being specific,” said Antony. He scratched the dog's ear. “The master of hounds in the camp said Baccha was the most stupid, untrainable dog he had ever seen. He wanted to make sure he could never find his way to the kennel bitches and produce equally worthless pups, so he cut his testicles off. Didn't he, Baccha? He cut your balls off and now you shall never have any fun.”

This last was said while filling a shallow bowl with watered wine, which Baccha eagerly set upon.

“So he has turned to drink,” said Brutus.

“Wouldn't you?” he asked earnestly.

The dog lapped at the wine. Antony waited.

“...Should you be giving that to him?”

He kept his face turned down to the dog, so that his colleague would not see the victory in his eyes. There was likely a special corner of Tartarus for people who mistreated animals as helpless and dumb as Baccha, but he reasoned if it forced Brutus to take charge of the dog, then the treatment would be short-lived.

“Look how he enjoys it,” is what he said.

“You've clearly never had a dog before. They require discipline, not indulgence.” Antony poured another quarter cup of watered wine into the bowl. “Don't think I don't see through this little ploy of yours. You're not subtle, Antony.”

He gave him bland smile.

Brutus glanced down to the dog. His lips thinned. “This is – moral blackmail. You are holding his well-being as ransom.”

“I've done worse things,” said Antony. He could think of half a dozen off the top of his head.

“Alright, _fine_!” exclaimed Brutus, sounding deeply harassed.

He sat forward and snapped his fingers twice; Baccha raised his head and looked over curiously, his long, wine-reddened tongue hanging from his mouth. Brutus said his name and snapped his fingers again.

Antony watched a little ruefully as the dog hesitated and then abandoned the bowl of wine and crossed the room. He should rightfully feel triumphant. So what if he could not train the dog himself? He engineered the situation whereby it did get trained, which was practically the same thing.

He turned back to his breakfast, though he kept one eye on Brutus and the dog. He watched them and thought about what kind of moral blackmail it might take to get Brutus to step up in other areas.

When he finished eating, he leaned back in satisfaction from his plate and said, “It has been a long summer of terrible food.”

“Mm, I'm sure.” Brutus did not look up from Baccha, who was now sitting at his feet, tail thumping the floor madly as he waited to be fed another rasher of petaso.

“Now that I'm home,” Antony continued, “I'm in the mood for something good. I was thinking I'd pick up an ostrich, see if your cook can make that dish with the tongue – the one with the, what was it – nutmeg?”

“Is that wise?” Brutus asked, frowning over at him. “The sumptuary laws we passed in the Senate limited the selling and purchasing of exotic fare. Even if you can find some, by all rights you should charge the merchant, not open your purse.”

“You forbid it?” Antony asked idly.

He hesitated and tried again, “The sumptuary laws—”

“You forbid it?”

Brutus fed Baccha another rasher without looking to see the dog take it. His eyes were on him, dark and weighing. His mouth pressed tense.

Antony propped a knee up against the table. He picked at the remnants of fig on his plate to conceal the fact that he was waiting for an answer.

“You are consul,” said Brutus finally. “You are empowered, same as I.”

The words, an echo of those Antony had once thrown at him, were at odds with his pinched expression. But there was a grim determination in his eyes; they had not misunderstood one another.

His lips stretched into a smile, though he could feel the muscles around his eyes did not move to match it.

“I see,” he said, because he was beginning to.  
  


* * *

  
Antony stood in his official toga before the full Senate and looked up at all the wary and expectant faces.

He remembered the first time he sat among these men, shortly after he was elected quaestor. A lifetime of waiting for the acknowledgment and respect a spare foot on one of those benches promised. They say the young are inclined to all sorts of foolishness, but Antony's most foolhardy moment was expecting anything from these people.

By then he'd met real power. He knew it lay elsewhere.

“Antony.”

He looked behind him to Brutus. The other man gestured to the empty consul seat to his left, and watched as he took it. He seemed to know a little of what was going through Antony's head, for he waited for him to meet his eyes again, and then nodded slightly.

They looked to the benches.

“The Senate will hear Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said the magistrate.

Antony propped his foot up and settled in.

Cicero rose from the first row. “The Senate is overjoyed to welcome the consul Antony back to the capitol. I confess some of us had begun to wonder if you planned to stay away and build an army in the western provinces, like your patron before you.”

Antony knew Brutus had all his dispatches read aloud to the Senate. They were all aware of the official line; he did not rise to the bait.

“The Pompeian force made it its business to stir up as much unrest as it could in Further Spain,” he said, with an easy shrug. “I could not in good conscience leave before setting it all to rights.”

“And Quintus Pompey,” called Cassius from the second row, “is he dead?”

Antony kept his smile firmly in place. “He will be if he ever shows his face again.”

“I would – graciously – like to remind the consul that all such military acts would first require the approval of this body,” said Cicero. He had not yet relinquished the floor.

Antony's foot came down with an audible smack as he leaned forward. “So approve it,” he said to him.

“Alright,” said Brutus to his right, lifting a hand to forestall further words. “I don't believe this matter is pressing, as my colleague has reported that Quintus Pompey's whereabouts and activities are unknown. Far more urgent is the debate, carried over from last session....”

He looked meaningfully to the magistrate, who duly tapped his rod on the floor and announced:

“On those occupations within the limits of Rome that shall be permitted to form and operate as collegia.”

Antony looked into the middle distance and thought he could see his shade flee before the impending tedium.  
  


* * *

  
Though it was still September, the air in the triclinium that evening bore a distinct chill. Brutus was late, away on some matter, which Antony was led to believe was not unusual. This left only he and Servilia at the table.

They ate the dinner in a stony silence. She managed to look like she was reclining on a bed of nails rather than a dining couch, but still ate at a sedate pace. He would swear on the black stone that the food of her plate actually grew with every tiny morsel she took off it. And every time she put a piece in her mouth, she fixed her eye unblinking upon him. He never noticed her actually chew anything. Perhaps, like a serpent, she swallowed her food whole.

Antony smiled at her and continued picking at the ostrich tongue, which he didn't actually like. He discreetly slipped it to Baccha, who lay beneath the table.

He was so relieved when Brutus finally entered and asked to speak to him alone, he could've kissed the man, never mind that the whole thing was his fault in the first place.

Brutus waited for his mother to quit the room. He didn't take a seat or help himself to any wine, but stood over the center couch with his head bowed until the sound of the door latch confirmed they were alone.

Antony drank, not taking his eyes off the other man even as he tipped his head back to drain the cup.

When he was done, he motioned for Eros to pour more wine. He said to Brutus, “Well?”

Brutus took his time putting the words out. He squinted into the air and mused, “That did not go as I had hoped the first meeting of the Senate after your triumphant return would.”

“Oh?” he said vaguely. “It was exactly what I imagined.” A slow death by boredom, to be repeated regularly. He imagined himself as Prometheus, chained to the consul bench as senators pecked out his liver every day. Actually, he thought, straightening a little: that would make for quite a good piece of graffiti.

Brutus continued, “My favorite bit was when you advocated allowing gangs of armed men to continue ruling the side streets.”

“Someone has to,” he reasoned, distracted. “For example, I hear my man on the Aventine is doing quite well. Murders are down. Commerce is up. Was there something else we wanted?”

Brutus loomed over him, inexplicably worked up. “Neither your man nor any of the others are _elected_ or officially _appointed_. They have no right to be in control of anything.”

“So – make it official. Can't we do that?” He waved a hand. “Set up a board or whatever, and license the collegia.”

He shook his head impatiently. “The publicani will protest such a contract being handed over outside the usual bidding procedures.”

“Juno Inferna, I do not care.” He shoved his plate away and stared up at him. “What is this? Why are we still talking about it? Is this what you've been like all summer?”

In his worst dreams these past few months, he could not have imagined this: Brutus standing practically astride his recumbent form and nattering on about municipal regulations. Perhaps some people might find the scenario arousing, but Antony was not such a pervert.

Brutus pressed his lips together. “You're being churlish.”

“Churlish, is it,” he said evenly.

“I have noticed you seem – angry with me.”

Antony made no reply.

His tone changed, went odd and slow. “And I wonder if you are in such a terrible temper because you dislike being back in the city just that much – or,” he leaned down, one hand coming up to brace on the back of Antony's couch, “because you were expecting something from me. Something I have yet to give.”

Every muscle was tensed with the effort to remain still.

“You could've taken it last night,” added Brutus.

He could only mutely shake his head. He swore to Venus he would never be the first to reach out again. It was the kind of oath the goddess abhorred, and he had paid dearly for her disfavor in the years since. But it was worth it, not to have to play seducer. He'd had his fill of that long ago.

Brutus misinterpreted the motion. He drew back, and Antony watched his hand fall to his side. He told himself he could catch it still, that this was different, but his body refused to move.

“I don't understand you,” said Brutus after a moment.

“I don't understand you either.”

His smile was there and gone; if Antony had blinked he would have missed it. “So at least we have that in common.” Brutus glanced away; scanned the remains of dinner on the table; briefly lit upon Eros standing ready with more wine. “I forgot to tell the slaves to prepare your rooms. You'll have to share mine again tonight.”

The excuse, the stubborn reaching for a pretext, like his company was something to be justified – after everything else that day, it was intolerable.

Antony said pleasantly, “Well, you know me. Anyone's bed will do.”

But Brutus, this new serious Brutus, refused to be provoked. He appraised Antony and said, “We both know that's not true.”

After he swept from the room, Antony launched his cup at the wall, where it shattered in a spray of wine and pottery shards.

Beneath the table, Baccha whined.  
  


* * *

  
He went to sleep before Brutus and woke up after him. He wouldn't have known the other man had been there at all, except he woke up on his side every morning, when it was his usual custom to sleep on his back.


	3. Chapter 3

A few miserable days passed and he could put it off no longer; he needed to visit Julia. Eros had taken to sighing audibly over every new daily agenda that didn't include the appointment, and it was becoming unbearable.

“If you think she lacks for company and news, why don't _you_ go see her?” he said as they dressed him.

Eros handed him his belt. “With Dominus's permission, of course I would be delighted to visit his radiant mother.”

Antony shook his head in disgust and buckled his sword into place. “Give a twelve-year-old some sweets now and then and you get his loyalty for life, apparently. I'll have to remember that.”

To the familiar noise of the slave's entreaties that he be patient, loving, and kind or whatever, he collected Vorenus and set off across the city. It was a fine day, and he regretted not stealing Baccha from Brutus's study for the walk. The animal was going to get fat and lazy, and soon no one would guess it had ever been a war dog.

A large gathering blocked their path into Julia's neighborhood on the Caelian. Antony and Vorenus both automatically laid hands on their blade hilts; upon realizing what the crowd was about, Vorenus let his drop.

The worshippers of Caesar had gotten better organized since he was last in Rome.

“Perfect,” said Antony, lifting a sandal to sidestep an excess runnel of blood. The crowd had dispatched a boar and were turning to the sheep and bull.

“New cults, sir,” said Vorenus, pragmatic. “You know how they are. Feel like they have something to prove. Want to make a lot of noise and commotion. They'll settle soon as they get a temple of their own outside the wall.”

Antony cast him a narrow look. “In what possible future do you see me allowing a temple for Caesar, even outside the Pomerium?” He peered at the nearest homespun flag being waved about. “What's that on their pendant?”

“The Comet of the Battle of Numantia, sir. Apparently in Rome, some say—”

“I know what they say. Load of cack. We'll have to declare an official word on that damn comet.” He sighed and drew up his hood. “Let us get through before they realize who I am. Being set upon by a frenzied mob would be a good excuse for delaying this visit, but I prefer my limbs intact.”

Vorenus walked between him and the crowd as they skirted the square, and fortunately no one took any notice of them. The crowd's chanting rose and fell, determined to reach ecstasy through sheer repetition if nothing else, it seemed to Antony. He took comfort in thinking about how appalled Caesar would be by the tacky, thrown-together feel of the whole thing.

He entered his mother's house without fanfare or even announcing himself.

Had he paused and thought about it, he might have chosen different, but habit took over as soon as the door was within view. It was as if he was seventeen again and stopping in after two nights away to change clothing and graze for food. Half-hoping to see her briefly so he wouldn't feel guilty, and half-dreading it. It hadn't been a home so much as a stage for explosive arguments.

“Your mother keeps a lovely house,” said Vorenus respectfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Antony. Moving down the corridor, he said over his shoulder, “Stay here.”

Halfway down the hall, he realized he probably shouldn't be wearing a sword to visit his mother (Julia would read into that) and spent half a minute struggling with his belt. He left the blade leaned up against the wall like an umbraculum, hitched his toga up over his shoulder, and continued.

The doorway to her weaving room was open, and in the silence of the house, he could hear the turn of the spindle inside. If he could hear that, it would work both ways. She must know someone had entered the house. She might even have guessed who.

He scratched his eyebrow, shook out his shoulders. Fixed his expression and stepped into the doorway.

* * *

  
When he was younger, people used to remark he had her eyes.

At some point they stopped.  
  


* * *

  
Julia's weaving room had always been the most lived-in room in her house. It was dominated by three large standing looms, all perpetually in some middle stage of a project. A large pile of wool sat in the corner, waiting to be spun into workable fiber.

Other wives and mothers of her class kept such a room as a gesture towards tradition but generally preferred to pay artisans for their textiles rather than work their fingers raw for hours over a loom. But many long lean years and a natural stubborness had ensured Julia did all her own spinning and weaving.

She was older. He saw her infrequently enough that it was a continual surprise to note the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Her long, thick dark hair, once the envy of the city, was now streaked with gray; he never knew if it was vanity or pride that prevented her from dyeing it or buying a set of wigs.

In the essentials, though, she still looked the same: strong, upright, and unflappable.

Julia glanced at him and kept spinning. “Marcus. It's good to see you.”

Rather than go straight to her, he wandered the edges of the room, flicking the loose edge of a thread here and there. He said, “Eros sends his usual overwrought tidings of love and devotion.”

“You didn't bring him along?”

“Thought – best not. You know how he gets when we fight. I can send him over later, if you like.”

“And are we to fight, Marcus?” Her voice was measured.

He wheeled around behind a loom and shrugged at her through the unoccupied warp threads. Often it felt like it was up to the gods. Not unlike how a chance of rain might turn into a flood that kills hundreds in a valley.

Julia caught her spindle whorl to stop the spinning and set it all aside. She let her hands drop to her lap and gave him her full attention. She studied him closely from head to foot and said after a moment, “No obvious injuries. And you look like you've been eating alright. How's your drinking?”

“Still enjoyable,” he said brightly. He fetched about for something to ask in return. “How's your – weaving?”

“You tell me,” came the dry reply. “The tunic you're wearing is one I made for you.”

He was going to throw Eros off the Tarpeian rock. Then drag his broken body back up the Capitoline to do it again.

Now that she had him at a loss for words, Julia smoothly switched topics. “I have received a letter from Gaius. He tells me you have recalled Lucius from Macedonia.”

He had sent Lucius to Gaius before the Ides, and his middle brother had gone after much protesting. He had wanted to stay and be useful; Antony had wanted him to not die if the assassination went awry. As the oldest, he'd won the argument.

Antony cocked his jaw and huffed a laugh. “Good old Gaius. And he wonders why Pietas and I never trusted him with secrets.” The baby of the family could never withhold anything from Julia.

“Perhaps he didn't realize it was a secret. Why should it be?”

He waved off her sudden edge of concern. “Oh, it's not, I suppose. But it's not necessarily something I want advertised either. The Senate gets huffy about moving soldiers around.”

“And Brutus? Does he?” There was something in her tone. He instinctively didn't like it.

He paced slowly along the back side of the middle loom, plucking taut warp threads like they were kithara strings. “I don't know, because I haven't told him about it. I don't need to ask his permission,” he added, a familiar hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone, despite his best determination that it should not.

Julia made no reply to this. Instead, she stood from her stool and crossed to the loom he stood behind. She reached for the bobbin holding the weft thread and, after a second's hesitation, offered it to him.

His fingers reached through the vertical threads of the loom to take hold of the wool fiber. He rubbed it between his fingertips. They looked at one another through the loom frame.

“Do you remember how?” she asked.

Instead of replying, he bent his head and began fitting the thread through the shuttle. Under her intent eye, he wove a line and passed it back to her. They fell into an old pace, silently working the loom, their hands communicating and cooperating better than they'd ever managed with words.

He could easily understand the appeal of this sort of work: the steady rhythm of it, the assembling from parts something strong and whole. He wondered if it was easier dealing with the world from the vantage point of the loom. Everything else must seem far away when one is used to working so close.

“What will you do, Marcus?” she asked quietly after twenty minutes of silence.

He paused, fingers slipping from the slots in the thread. He sighed and looked at his feet. “Is there a single answer I could give that you would like?”

“You always make me out to be so unreasonable.”

“I'm working with I get,” he pointed out. “And you've never hidden what you think of me.”

Her hand closed over his around the loom frame. His eyes came up.

“You know the enemies you have in the Senate – and now in the streets. Do you understand, I just want you to be safe.” Her grip tightened as she searched his face, looking for a sign of he knew not what. She said fiercely, “I want us all to be safe.”

He licked his lips. “There are many ways to kill a man. I think you'd have me march into one sort of death just to avoid the other. Make me Creticus the Younger.”

She released his hand as if it stung. A shadow passed over her. “There are worse things to be. Your father was a good man. He was kind.”

It begged the question: who did Antony take after, then? But as they watched each other in frustration and stifled hostility, they didn't have to ask it. They both already knew.  
  


* * *

  
He went straight back to the house after leaving Julia's and dismissed Vorenus the moment they passed through the gate. He walked through the atrium, where Eros was bent over Baccha, trying to pry the dog's jaws from around a carved figurine. He stalked down the corridor past the triclinium where Servilia was supping with a handful of women, who exploded in a flurry of whispers like startled geese at his back.

He entered Brutus's study without knocking and slammed the door shut. Brutus uncurled his back from over his desk – bastard had been napping – and looked around, alarmed.

“Antony, what—”

He was on his knees at his side in seconds, head bowed so he wouldn't have to look his face. He pressed his forehead to the side of his knee and felt the shock go through the other man's body. It didn't stop the hand from coming down and cupping the back of his neck.

He spoke, but the words were muffled, and Brutus had to ask him to repeat it.

“You said you were committed,” said Antony, louder. “That was the word you used. Committed. Well, committed to what?” He lifted his face. “What are you waiting for?”

“To see if it'll be different,” said Brutus.

“It will be.” He wanted to reach up and grip his legs, but it felt too much like begging. “It already is.”

“It nearly killed me last time.”

“Alright, so maybe it won't be that different.” And when he saw Brutus's face change, he added hastily, “That was a joke.”

“No,” said Brutus severely, “I don't think it was.”  
  


* * *

  
It was as if they had tripped at the top of a hill and were now tumbling headlong down its slope. A handful of days passed and they could barely tolerate being in the same room as one another – but they kept choosing to anyway.

The tension started to spill over into other realms of life.

“I veto the motion,” said Antony, lounging backwards.

A burble of confusion rippled through the Senate. Cicero put his head back and heaved a sigh that was audible to the entire chamber.

Brutus blinked over at him, mouth hanging open. He shut it and then, after a long moment of visibly composing himself, he checked, “You veto the motion?”

“Yes.”

“The motion to appropriate funds to have the third level of the House of the Vestals repainted?” He spoke as if he wasn't sure Antony had been listening to the procedural dialogue of the past half hour.

And to be fair: he hadn't been. They should all be thankful they'd been discussing something as inconsequential as fresco work. He might have vetoed anything.

“Yes,” he said, folding his arms. “What do the Virgins care if it's repainted? They barely go outside.”

Brutus's face creased in a pained smile, which he directed at the magistrate. “I think we'll table this matter for now.” When he looked back at Antony, his eyes promised consequences.  
  


* * *

  
Late at night, they crossed one another in the dark hallway, and instead of ignoring him as he had all evening, Brutus turned suddenly and crowded his back, mouth against his ear.

“I'd forgotten,” he said, low.

Antony made an inquiring noise, tilting his head. He felt like his blood rose at the slightest puff of breath against his skin, so easily at the man's beck and call.

“What it's like when you're around. Everything – everything becomes so much—”

“What,” he said, something like dread surfacing.

“More. More everything. I don't know.” Brutus laughed a little helplessly. “I don't know what I'm saying. But when you're here, everything is unpredictable. It's unbearable.”

He turned in place. Brutus's eyes went to his shoulders; he wet his lips. Antony thought he should step back – this is where he usually stepped back. His hands flexed, empty, at his sides.

“How are those rooms of mine coming along?” he asked. “By now, I expect they've been completely remodeled.”

It was Brutus who now stepped back, brandishing his irritation like a shield. “I think we both know which room you belong in. But it is – as ever, Antony – your choice.”

All year he had been worried about assassins and enemy armies, but Antony was starting to think they would end up killing each other.  
  


* * *

  
They attended a dinner, some social function just a step below official business of the state, and a Senator who had rarely left the bounds of Rome asked Antony how he liked being back in the city.

“You know, you can best remember the truth of this place when you are away from it,” he said.

“The truth of this place?” The man looked at him with polite puzzlement, while Antony's true target drew himself up and cut in:

“Please pause for a moment. I need to fortify myself with some wine, as I don't believe I'll like this.”

Antony, being the obliging friend he was, waited until Brutus had fetched himself a cup of wine and resumed his place in the group. Then he said:

“The only language Rome understands is force.” He smiled and toasted the crowd of interested socialites. “I propose we use my fluency to our advantage.”

Brutus drank.  
  


* * *

  
“You're much more fun like this, I honestly don't know why you're not drinking more,” said Antony as he hauled a drunk and handsy Brutus towards their room later that same night. Brutus refused to let go of his hips, and it occasionally interfered with their forward momentum.

“If I drank to cope with being consul, I'd never stop,” said Brutus, nuzzling his neck.

He tipped his head obligingly back and reached around Brutus to fumble with the door. He tried to concentrate. “I fail to see the problem with... a- _ha!_ ” He got it open and they stumbled across the threshold. “Wait, wait—” Antony pivoted, but Brutus held on too tight, and they spun twice before smacking back against the door, effectively shutting it.

(A voice in the back of his head said there was a reason they never did this; it had been too many years, and there was too much between them. Fucking while they were both drunk promised to end only one way, which was messy.)

Brutus opened his mouth and let his teeth graze over his pulse.

(This voice, which had been distant to begin with, receded over the horizon and vanished.)

Antony canted his hips forward as Brutus pinned him in place and pressed in, making him ride his thigh. A blissful haze descended, and he gave himself over to it. His eyes wandered the room, barely taking anything in until they landed on the map spread out over Brutus's desk.

Force. Fluency. Right.

“I think we could do this,” panted Antony.

“Hm? We _are_ doing this.” Brutus pressed a swift kiss to his mouth, almost perfunctory, and dropped his forehead to Antony's shoulder, gulping for air. He was whispering something into the front of his tunic, almost a chant, and it took Antony several seconds to make it out: _finally, finally, finally_.

He felt ablaze.

Brutus gripped the back of his thigh and tugged, and he obediently slung a leg around his hip. They both tore impatiently at their tunics, rucking the hems up and shoving together. Their cocks met, Brutus's grip sure and spit-slicked around them both.

Antony groaned. “No – I mean, yes. But.” What was he saying. What the fuck was he saying. It was important, it was everything. “I mean – you have me.”

“I have you,” agreed Brutus, mindless.

“And I have seventeen legions and more due back from Macedonia.”

Brutus shook his head, scattered, and then leaned forward to kiss the corner of his jaw with the distinct manner of one returning to the business at hand.

“What?” he belatedly muttered into Antony's ear two full minutes later.

“Seventeen legions. And ten thousand cavalry. In short, I have an army.” Antony fumbled for his face, stopping him from sucking a line down his neck, and made him meet his eyes. “ _Your_ army.”

Brutus slowed and stared at Antony, uncomprehending. “What. What would I do with an army?”

Antony's hands tightened on his shoulders. “Don't be thick. Don't pretend.”

“I'm not,” said Brutus sharply, hand lifting away entirely. “Don't presume.”

Antony dropped his leg and Brutus stepped back. They were both high in color and still hard, though the arousal was dissipating into something that felt much worse.

He drew a hand back through his hair, pulling, and blew out a hard breath. “Why are you being like this?” He demanded. “You said—”

Brutus frowned. “I never—”

“ _In your letter_.” Viciously insistent.

He put a hand up. “I said I'd protect us. And I will.” He turned and followed Antony's progress across the room, like he might pull him back through sheer force of will. He said, urging, “Look, we'll get through this year, and then it can all be over – it can be over, Antony, and then we can—”

Antony paused in rubbing his face and stared at him in disbelief. “There is no _over_. How do you not see that yet?”

Brutus hesitated, despair darkening his features like a passing cloud. But then he firmed his jaw, determined. “That's not true. You act like no one in the Republic ever retires or makes a change in career. But the fact is almost everyone does. Not everyone in Italy – or even this _city_ – is so obsessed with this lunatic jockeying for power as the senatorial families.” Brutus paused and then, challenging, said to his turned back: “I think you like to think of us as trapped because then you don't have to take ownership of your decisions.”

He laughed. “You want to talk to me of taking ownership of decisions? _You_?”

“I am trying to,” snapped Brutus, finally shoving away from the wall and pacing towards him. “What do you think I've been doing all summer?”

“Not what I thought you were doing, clearly,” he said bitterly.

“Which was?”

“Amassing political support.” He waved a hand. “Solidifying power.”

Brutus's stupid face wrinkled. “Well, of course I've done that, yes, but not for any of the outlandish reasons you're suggesting. This – army business, or whatever. You think I'm working myself ragged like a draft animal every day so I can get and keep _more_ power? Are you insane?”

Antony could think of nothing else to do but crouch down, cover his face, and groan.

“Where is this even coming from?” Brutus wanted to know above him. He was drifting closer, because clearly he'd never been taught how to approach a wounded wild animal. “When you left here in the spring, you would've leapt at the chance to drop all of this consul business. What happened?”

“Spain happened,” he said thickly. “Spain and a lot of killing and months of receiving news from Rome about your unimpeachable conduct in office. Is there wine in here?” The drink was abandoning him, slipping through his fingers like everything else that was good and simple in life.

“I don't see what one has to do with the other,” came the response, and then, after a moment's casting about, regretful: “No, doesn't look like there is.”

Of course not. Fine. Antony straightened up, determined that they would finally have it out regardless. Maybe this was the only way it was ever going to happen: with the both of them on the ugly side of sobering up and made irritable with blue balls.

“Go on, then,” he said to Brutus, who had shrugged off his tunic and was now staring dully at its sad crumpled form on the floor. “Try and convince me of this future you're imagining after our year ends. What do you think will happen?”

Brutus passed a hand over his eyes. “I don't want to talk about this now. We're both upset and a little drunk—”

“No, not me. I'm perfectly sober now.”

Brutus paused and then very obviously chose not to address that statement. He said again, “I don't want to talk about this now.”

“Fine,” said Antony, “Then I'll do the talking.”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

He tried to turn away, but Antony was in front of him in two steps. He put a hand on his arm and Brutus looked down at it. He clearly wanted to pull away, but he remained still.

“You think you can be consul for a year and then fade away into obscurity, but that's not how it works. Maybe if it was a different time, or you were a different man – I don't know, maybe. But so long as you are alive, you have relationships with others, you hold sway. Which makes you someone they won't let alone. Do you hear me? Brutus, do you understand?”

“Shut up,” whispered Brutus.

“And then there's me,” he continued doggedly, staring at his downturned face. “Even aside from all my other enemies, my killing Caesar means I'll always be too much of a – a fucking symbol to be let alone. There's always going to be someone who wants to use me, or kill me and make a trophy of it—”

His face twisted, and he tore from Antony's grip. “No, it doesn't have to be like that. We can set ourselves up in some farflung province, somewhere we'll be... nominally political.”

“Nominally political?” he repeated, mocking. “What does that even mean, are you going to convince people you're too boring to bother with?”

Up went the nose. “Yes, that is precisely what I mean. A boring career and a rich private life—”

“ _Fuck_ your private life,” snarled Antony.

Brutus stared at him with wide eyes, too shocked to reply.

Antony's face was very hot. His pulse was racing. He hadn't even meant to say it, or realized how he felt about it. But it was out there now, sitting between them.

“It doesn't exist,” he said rapidly, barely aware of the words that came to him before they were slipping out of his mouth. “There's no difference between private and public for me, don't you understand? There never has been. From the moment I donned the toga virilis, everyone in this city has known my business. Every mistake, every _humiliation_ —”

“I know this,” said Brutus tightly. “You _know_ I know this. You shared your troubles with me, and I have carried them in my heart all these years. What I don't understand is why you persist in giving them the satisfaction of ruling over your life."

Antony's jaw ached. His hands opened and closed in the air at his sides. How frustrating it was to have the one who knew him best be so clueless; the fault lay with one of them but he'd rather open his belly than say it was him.

“It's either die a conqueror or die a joke,” he said, empty. “Where, exactly, between those two choices do you see me kicking back in dotage and reading poetry?”

“You could,” said Brutus, now subdued. He wandered over and sat on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face tiredly and said through his hands, “You could, if you really wanted to. All the crazy things I've watched you do, watched you accomplish, I don't believe for a second you couldn't loosen your grip—”

“I am trying to loosen my grip,” said Antony. He approached the bed and crouched down before the other man, hands on either side of his knees. “Isn't that what this whole thing is about?”

“I don't want to be king.”

The words were spoken quietly, but with a very firm finality. Brutus dragged his gaze up from the floor and met Antony's eyes. He looked anguished.

Antony felt like he had struck him with the back of his hand. All his plans and desires dismissed as easily as if he was a slave. He had never mentioned the word aloud. But wasn't it just like Brutus to find Antony's flaws the most transparent thing about him.

While Brutus gazed helplessly at him from the bed, he bowed his head and considered several possible replies. He discarded the obvious – ignorance, prevarication, denial. He thought about arguing – but this wasn't something to be argued about, for the same reasons Rome needed a king in the first place. Arguing only led to more strife and suggested those involved in the argument felt some anxiety or confusion about their proper place.

So he chose none of those options.

Antony took hold of the other man's hands; he ran a thumb over the familiar shape of the writing callus on his middle finger. He thought about a life of philosophy and poetry and knew with a depth of certainty that could only come from the gods that this was a life Brutus would never get to have.

He looked up and breathed through a smile, the one that generally made senators go pale and soldiers started praying they weren't 100 in a sound-off. But this smile had always had a singular effect on Brutus; he paled, yes – but his cock also twitched.

Brutus sounded almost disturbed by his silence. “Antony, did you hear me? I said I don't want to be king.”

Antony's hands tightened their grip.

“You will,” he said simply.


End file.
